Posted in Poems, Uncategorized

Linen.

He buttons his shirt

to the rhythm of the downpour.

Tormented man and torrent of rain,

last breath that departs

before the embrace of dear death.

The silk that softens,encloses,encases

the rotting of his memories–

broken bones and blackening bruises,

all preserved underneath that cloth

where I once knew

what it meant to know,

to sink so far–awake in the dim caverns of my mind.

He watched me collapse within my sorrow,

foul fortune that still stained my palms

when he to crumbled into eternity,

to be what I could never be,

to be but never be.

The drunken man who I feared,

so poetic in all that he was;

Even in dying, his name, I revered:

Frail linen carried across the wind.

-Eva M.M.

Thank you for reading and sharing your thoughts on this poem with me.

” Me and the pen, we are one. If its ink would cease to flow, my ink would cease to flow.”

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Author:

I am a young and enthusiastic writer, fresh out of highschool and into college at IUSB. I babysit and work and live life to it's fullest. I write. I read. I do yoga. And plan to become. Yoga intructers as well. I grew up on a farm and can't,t wait to move back to the country in my tiny house I have already planned out. Sometimes I'm a little melodramatic but rarely. I'm a spiritual healer, a hopeless romantic, a book worm, and very nostalgic. Thanks for stopping by.

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